He looked at his hands in the mirror. His hand wraps were tight, just the way he liked it. His hands fixed into fists. He threw a combination of punches aiming at his reflection. He was fast. As if responding to his own attack he then weaved his head from side to side, rolling his body, his guard up by his chin.

His form was immaculate. Simultaneously attacking and defending; hit without being hit. He put his whole body weight into every punch, twisting his hips with his legs. He was light on his toes, effortlessly bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to instantly change direction when required.

The boxing gym was filled with the loud monotonous sound of a speed bag being worked, bouncing off the board in a three hit pattern. Jarrett watched Ryan in the reflection of the mirror ; he had been at it for half an hour. He knew that Ryan’s mind was somewhere else, contemplating his first fight. He had lost.

Jarrett left him alone; he knew all too well the feeling of a loss. You doubt yourself, asking if you can you really hack it as a boxer? It’s the question that drive’s you crazy. Do you get back on your feet, grit your teeth and get on with it? Or do you never step in the ring ever again?

Jarrett snapped out of his contemplation when a large smack echoed across the gym. The drumming sound of the speed bag had stopped and Ryan was standing motionless looking in the direction of the heavy bags. Another crash from the heavy bags reverberated against the wooden floors and concrete walls, and everyone stopped what they were doing.

Buried in the heaviest bag in the gym was the gloved fist of a stranger. His dark eyes fixed on the bag, an intense stare. He struck again, another crash as a left hook sent the bag flying to the right where it was met by an uppercut which lifted the bag a foot into the air. It fell back down straining the chain that supported it, shaking the whole framework that held the punch bags.

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